


And so, a gladiolus bloomed

by Sipsthytea



Series: The Witcher and the Bard [10]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, I Made Myself Cry, Jaskier deserves a hug, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Language of Flowers, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Sad Ending, This Is Sad, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Unrequited Love, he needs one, like wtf, someone please give him a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:08:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24320089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sipsthytea/pseuds/Sipsthytea
Summary: Jaskier kept it to himself and with trembling fingers, placed the petal in a jar. It glided to the bottom; an ear-shattering silence followed. The love he’d worked so hard to destroy was coming back up, it was resurfacing in its glory.With beauty, but pain.So much pain.Or the Hanahaki! Au no one asked for.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: The Witcher and the Bard [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671085
Comments: 91
Kudos: 388





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate you :) I hope you enjoy!

It grew slowly. 

A dull pain that resided in the depths of Jaskier’s throat. A faint ache that was triggered once or twice a day, nothing extreme. 

Some mild discomfort, yes, but no pain. 

There was nothing to cause him pain, well, besides the pair before him. Geralt of Rivia, The White Wolf, The Butcher of Blaviken, The Witcher, Jaskier’s best friend, together, happily coupled with the great mage, Yennefer of Vengerberg. 

Both were quite pleasant together. Their personalities often clashed but complemented each other in the best ways. They were perfect for each other. 

Of course, they were. 

Why wouldn’t they be?

There was the headstrong Yennefer, always wanting more, always craving more, paired together with the unyielding Geralt. There was no better match he could think of. 

Perhaps a match he wanted, but it wasn’t something he’d ever voice. 

He would never voice it when Geralt smiled the way he did. Full and bright, slightly dimmed by self-consciousness, but raised in beauty. The way his golden gaze was warmer, kinder. His voice was much less gruff, less cold. Geralt was newly changed and it was all because of this mage. This wonderful mage that fell in love with Geralt as ferociously as he fell in love with her. 

It was as painful as it was beautiful. 

Days spent watching, longing, and hoping. Hoping for a resolve, maybe a rekindling of a fire that was never there. Jaskier wanted, he wanted with all his soul, but there was not enough soul left within him to want forever. 

What he wanted was deeply buried. Hidden within the bowels of the forest and night sky. Lost within the whispers of the stars and moon, Shielded from the eyes of others, something personal to just the two of them. To only Geralt and Jaskier. 

Nights spend burning next to one another, a fire lit deep within them. Spurred on by rushed kisses and heated kisses, small whimpers and promises of, “It’s you, Jaskier, it’s always only been you.”

Oh, how he wishes that were true. He wishes that Geralt hadn’t lied. Maybe then, maybe if he pushed the Witcher away, maybe if he pulled himself out of that burning grim, maybe then it wouldn’t hurt. 

But instead, he allowed himself to dissolve in the flame. 

“Yes, yes,” he’d chant, repeating it as if it were a mantra. 

The harsh reality of daybreak would pool in, dragging the two farther away once more. Ripping the fire from between them, cold waters of self-expectation and anguish would flood through. 

They’d be lost again, stragglers wandering circles around each other, begging the other to move closer, but holding a sword before you. 

Geralt and Yennefer were perfect for each other. They always would be. 

______

And from then on, the pain worsened. Swimming up his throat, clawed deep within his stomach. It whisked away the one he loved and the thing he adored. There was nothing left but pain. 

Jaskier coughed up a gladiolus petal shortly after word of their betrothal spread. 

It was anguish. The soft, smooth texture burned its way up his esophagus, scorching the skin it touched. 

He stared at it, unable to comprehend the reality of what was happening. Unable to understand that this was the beginning of his death, and it would be slow and agonizing. 

Jaskier kept it to himself and with trembling fingers, placed the petal in a jar. It glided to the bottom; an ear-shattering silence followed. The love he’d worked so hard to destroy was coming back up, it was resurfacing in its glory. 

With beauty, but pain. 

So much pain. 

______

“Will you be able to play at our ceremony, Jaskier?” Geralt asks him, voice hopeful and full of promise. 

There’s something in Jaskier that digs deeper, more pain, more anguish. 

“Of course, Geralt,” He answers, a smile pulling at his lips. But behind the smile, hidden between his clenched teeth is another gladiolus petal. 

The waxy texture burns against his tongue, it’s unfamiliar within the cavern of his mouth, unwelcomed. But it doesn’t compare to the burn of seeing Geralt smile at him, the relieved sigh that barely slips out of his mouth. The way his eyes glow a bright hue of gold that it makes his head spin, his heart crack. 

“Of course,” he repeats again. But he doesn’t say it for Geralt, he says it for himself. 

______

There is a memory that strikes him clearer than the rest, a memory that is more vivid than the rest. 

The first time Geralt kissed him, it was cold. There was rain and thunder, large strikes of lightning shook the tavern where they resided. The air was damp and unclean, harsh and ragged, but it was alright. It was alright because here, in the dim room, lit by a single candle, Jaskier had Geralt. 

With the flame flickering dutifully in the corner of the room, they were left in silence. Empty space filled with silent longing, silent need, and want. 

They sat at opposite ends of the bed, the sheets a swarming sea of realization neither one was ready to take on. Jaskier was tense, fingers picking at the threading of his sleep shirt, glancing at the looming figure behind him. 

It’s Jaskier who lays down first, crossing his hands on his stomach. He stares blankly into the ceiling, cautiously eyeing the Witcher. 

Geralt eases himself down, the bed creaking as he moves. 

They lay in silence. Nothing but the flicker of the flame falling between them, but there’s also the thrum of their heartbeats. Heartbeats that yearn to beat as one, that yearn to intertwine, to collide until there was no difference.

Until the wounds on Geralt’s soul were mirrored in Jaskier’s own. 

He wanted every broken corner, every cracked crevice, Jaskier wanted it all. He was willing to give his all and accept Geralt’s all. All the Witcher had to do was let him in. 

It wasn’t until he had a smoldering gaze on him, that he turned. And of course, he was met with the eyes of Geralt. Those intense golden eyes, small flakes of silver swimming in the sea of hurt and ancient secrets, he was beautiful. 

For a moment, Jaskier doesn’t dare move, he doesn’t dare breathe. He is still, unmoving. The only thing that moves is the constant thud of his heart against his rib cage as it threatens to leap from his throat. 

Geralt seems to be waiting, eyes searching the bards, a furrow in his brow.

But this same silence has happened too many times for Jaskier to not know how to break it, “You said you wanted no one needing you, Geralt,” he whispers, fingers ghosting across the sharp contours of the Witcher’s face. 

“Because I didn’t,” He says, voice calm, low and steady. His eyes are the exact opposite. They are unfocused, darting across the room, from Jaskier’s lips to his eyes to his hair to the ceiling. 

“And yet,” Jaskier breathes, leaning closer, inching closer, “Here we are.”

Geralt is the one to close the gap, lips searching out those of his bard. Craving the gentle press of their lips together, the smooth movements of their bodies as they mold together. It is so very easy to fall into the deep expanse of Geralt of Rivia. 

And Jaskier does, he falls deep into the scalding fires of this Witcher, and he burns. 

He burns. 

______

By the time the wedding bells chime, Jaskier is hacking up branches and fully-grown flowers. Gladiolus blooms deep within the depths of his sadness, basking in the darkness of his rejection. The petals crawl up his throat, scratching up the skin as they go along, and with it, they draw blood. 

And it's as he’s watching the two exchange vows, as he watches them swear to only love each other, does it begin to settle in. It settles in deeper than the roots of these flowers within him, he’s losing Geralt forever. 

He is going to lose this man forever. This man who thinks of himself as less of a man and as more of a beast. This beautiful man was carved from destruction and anger, misunderstanding and abandonment. 

He was going to lose Geralt forever. 

The pain ran through him slowly, rising over that of the flower. All he could feel was the shattering of his heart and soul. The same heart that yearned to beat in time with Geralt, the same soul that would have happily bleed openly to match that of his. These shoulders that would have gladly taken the burdens of the Witcher, all he had to do was let Jaskier in. 

But Geralt of Rivia has never been good at letting anyone in. 

“And do you swear to give the last light of your life to her, to honor and cherish her for as long as you shall live?” The priest questions, boney face peeking from behind the large book in his hands. 

“I swear,” Geralt says, his voice is so sure, so steady, but once again, his eyes tell a different story. They are looking everywhere, uncontrolled, yearning. His hands are clasped with Yennefer’s, scared palms resting in hers. 

The image alone sends new waves of pain rushing through the bard. The beautiful scene painted by Yennefer and Geralt, the way they are encased in fine fabrics and youthful flowers. They are showered with approval and affection. It makes something burn within Jaskier. 

Next thing he knows, he’s coughing. A hand coming up to clasp around his mouth, a furious blush threatening to rush across his cheeks. He does his best to control his volume, passing it off with a sheepish smile. 

“Jaskier,” Ciri questions from beside him, tentative hand on his forearm, “Are you alright?”

“Quite-” He’s cut off by a guttural wheeze, “Quite alright, I just need some air.”

He pushes past her, slipping out of the pew and quickly dashing through the aisle. Jaskier does his best to wave off concerned looks and murmurs, but it hurts. 

It hurts so very much. 

______

He’s made it far enough away, the Chapel fading away in the distance, morphing into nothing more than a speck of dust. 

The world around him is dim, light steadily seeping from the shapes and life that surrounds him. The sky is no longer crystal clear; the clouds no longer snow-white; the trees and plant life no longer hold the vibrant hue of spring. 

But as he staggers in the grass, soft, waxy bodies twisting around his calves, it comes up. Another flower, however, this time, it doesn’t stop. 

There is so much more, the burning step lodged in the back of his throat as he claws at the flower petals. Thoughts swarm him, the pain swarms him. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. There’s too much pain, too much burning within his lungs. 

‘Help me,’ he thinks, calling out to anyone, ‘Please, help me.’

There’s a dull thud that he registers, and he hardly registers it as his own knees hitting the ground. Jaskier keels over, more petals filling his being, submerging within his heart and bursting through his soul. 

Trapped in this garden of pain, he grew these magnificent flowers for Geralt, a garden blooming in his lungs just for The Witcher. But sadly, as with most things, it is something that will lead to his downfall. 

But just as the world begins to fade away, just as the light dims completely, he feels that warmth. The warmth of that tavern, the complexity of their silence, the untold ‘I love you’s woven into the fabric of their kiss. 

And so, as life slips away from Jaskier’s body, he thinks only one thought. He thinks of only one name. 

_ Geralt.  _

______

  
  


The wind billows silently, carrying with it, sad melodies. The trees dance, sorrowful and grim, twisted in. Above, the sky is melting, harsh blues calmed in a sea of purple and yellow, red and pink. The horizon crests above the chapel before anyone goes out. Before they stumble onto a newly formed buttercup field, lined with swaying dandelions. And it takes them time to come around to the small grouping of chrysanthemums and yellow carnations. 

It takes them a moment to find, cradled within the beauty and grace of this flower field, a bard. A bard who has bled out these flowers, whose passion became fertilizer and whose sadness became the sun. They find a bard, sea-blue eyes dull and glazed over, and for once, they find him with nothing to say but one name carved onto his tongue. 

One name held within the loud weeping of this flower field through the wind. One name that everyone knows, but no one will say. 

‘Geralt’ is pressed against his lips, teetering on the tip of his tongue, lost in the sea of gladiolus petals. That name burned in the depths of the bard’s soul, seared in the great expanse of his skin, written on the threads of his heart. 

The name ‘Geralt,’ whispered among gladiolus flowers to the dandelions, the name of sadness whispered to that of an opened wound. 

They find a bard alone in a flower field. He is surrounded by buttercups and dandelions, framed by chrysanthemums and carnations, and woven with gladiolus that bloom from deep within his lungs. 

Deep within his soul. 

Deep within his heart. 

Deep within his very being. 

Deep within Jaskier, a gladiolus blooms. 

  
  
  



	2. The World Knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt’s reaction to seeing Jaskier✌️

The world knew before Geralt did. 

It knew of the loss of light before he did. It knew of the blossoming field of flowers that lay just outside the chapel. 

The new fragrance of Buttercups and Dandelions, Gladiolus and Carnations and Chrysanthemums that wafted through the air. 

A new life that was lost to love that could have been but never was. 

The world knew before Geralt did, the world always seemed to know before Geralt did. 

There was a shout and a ripple of murmurs that drew the newlyweds to the field. 

“Look! Was that field always there?” Ciri questioned, blue eyes wide with wanderlust and curiosity. 

“I don’t think so,”Yennefer muttered, head cocking to glance at the vast field. 

It was beautiful, blushing flowers turned away from the sun, bowed towards the ground. Surrounded by proud forest, in the clutches of beauty, was heartbreak.

But as always,

The world knew before Geralt did.

The wind billows silently, carrying with it, sad melodies. The trees dance, sorrowful and grim, twisted in. Above, the sky is melting, harsh blues calmed in a sea of purple and yellow, red and pink. The horizon crests above the chapel, gracing the world with a spotlight of sunbeams.

Something is wrong.

It picks away at the Witcher, pulling at his heartstrings, tugging at his unmatched senses. 

There’s something missing.

A light, a voice, a life.

Something he can’t put his finger on.

But he doesn’t have to.

“Where’s Jaskier?” Ciri questions, eyes dimmed, concern swirling wildly in her seas of blue.

“He never came back?” Geralt asks, turning to the young girl. He drops his arm away from Yennefer.

“No...he didn’t.”

The world always knew before Geralt did.

It takes them a moment to find, cradled within the beauty and grace of this flower field, a bard. A bard who has bled out these flowers, whose passion became fertilizer and whose sadness became the sun. They find a bard, sea-blue eyes dull and glazed over, and for once, they find him with nothing to say.

His blood causes Geralt’s to curdle. Soft petals gracing his lips, his hands, his fingertips. The doublet he had especially made is wrinkled, folded under the weight of his body. 

“Jaskier?” He breaths out, a hand raised inches above the bard’s figure. 

“Jaskier?” He calls once more, emotions crawling dangerously up his throat.

Midnights spend bathing in the warmth and brightness of Jaskier draining from him so quickly, the subtle nuance of his touch is fading away. 

The world around him begins to collapse. The sky crying heavily as the world shivers with thunder strikes and lightning flashes. 

“Jaskier,” he begs, voice bobbing.

“Jaskier….”

He reaches for the bard's cold hand, clenching his fingers around the lifeless warmth. With a strain of his ears, he can no longer hear Jaskier’s heartbeat. A lively thump of life, matching his smile. 

It’s empty.

It’s quiet.

The world continues to cry heavy tears of loss. 

Continues to sing mellow songs of sunbeams and midnight kisses. 

Continues to bloom gladiolus flowers and buttercups.   
___________  
  


Geralt can still hear the melodies.    
  


The ones the wind carry, the billowing trees trusting with the sad tunes. 

He can still smell the buttercups.

The dandelions.

The chrysanthemums and carnations.

He can see the gladiolus flower. 

Sprouting from a dark blue tunic, tucked deeply into the roots of a heart he once loved. 

A heart he loves. 

There is regret and sadness. A pain that burrows tightly within his stomach, rising over the concern of Yennefer. His wife. 

A woman with whom he’s promised his soul, but how can he turn to her and say his soul is decayed. It’s dying and in its place grows another thing.

Something with sharp thorns, scraping away at the resolve, the happiness.

There’s a dandelion blooming.

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! 
> 
> I appreciate it so much! :)
> 
> Gladiolus flower: Strength, Faithfulness, Honor
> 
> Yellow Carnations: Rejections, disappointment, disdain 
> 
> Chrysanthemums: Can symbolize the passing or mourning of someone
> 
> Buttercup: Childishness, humility, neatness
> 
> Dandelion: Represents emotional healing and re-emerging from a dark place.
> 
> For those of you that didn’t know, I chose the gladiolus to represent Geralt because i though it fit his character well.
> 
> THANK YOU FOR READING! I hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> Don’t be shy, leave me a comment, it can be about your corrections, thoughts, or even what you’d like to see in the future.
> 
> [Psa: comments keep me motivated to write, they help me know my work is being seen and enjoyed:)]


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